


remember you

by larvitar



Category: Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Repression, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:47:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24924127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larvitar/pseuds/larvitar
Summary: Over the years, Marianne fails to remember.☆★☆héloïse/marianne, one-shot, POV of marianne, angsty and painful
Relationships: Héloïse/Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire)
Kudos: 20





	remember you

**Author's Note:**

> a quick thing i whipped up based on the song remember you from adventure time, specifically the rebecca sugar demo (https://youtu.be/cYFMa22J7Fs). comments & kudos appreciated!!!!

After Marianne leaves their tiny, tiny, island, she nearly loses her mind. Everyday that she wakes up, the sheets next to her barren and cold, something in her heart drops. She spends many days, remembering, tracing her fingers over the miniature, sleeping, writhing in pain.

The miniature stares back at her blankly. It cannot offer comfort. God, that is all she desires. An ounce of comfort from Héloïse. Just for an hour. Just for a minute. Just for a second.

Her father tells her if she wishes to get rid of the anguish burdening her heart, she must throw herself into her work. Art might help her get some of the pent-up feelings out, he reasons.

With that, Marianne extracts a new canvas and begins to set up in her studio. At first, a landscape, a gray and murky sky. Then, a figure. The figure’s dress: a deep blue. She would almost blend into the background if not for the flame setting her alight.

The figure has no face. She’s turned around.

Marianne considers giving the figure a face, just for a second, before reconsidering. She doesn’t wish to burden her heart by unearthing the miniature. Or simply trying to paint her face, by memory.

The days she paints the gloomy scene only made interesting by the young woman on fire are anything but what she wants to put onto canvas. Paris is lively, especially in the springtime, she thinks to herself. _Lively, but not merry,_ her own voice from long ago says inside her head and she recoils.

It’s an agonizing process. Some days, she can’t focus, and paints the same strokes idly. Other days, she paints like she’s running out of time. Her mind races and her hands move seemingly on their own, until the backdrop is finished. It looks almost apocalyptic— the sky is cloudy, the few patches of sky a depressing blue, the ground a lifeless gray. It’s the opposite of the island— in no way idyllic, no crashing waves, no clear blue skies hanging over them. It’s devoid of life, except for the fire of passion that rages on the bottom of the figure’s dress.

The flames flick up at the bottom, lively as ever. The figure seems aloof, almost. She seems to let herself be consumed by the flames, and Marianne chokes at the thought. 

After tireless day and night has passed and the painting is finished, Marianne stands back. She blinks— once, twice. What will she call this?

 _It’s a portrait_ , retorts the faraway voice again. Marianne stands still, pondering this. But it’s not, isn’t it? It’s a lonely figure on a drab background, facing away. None of the figure’s features are visible. The focal point is the flames of the dress, not the face, not the figure herself. _But it’s still a portrait_ , the voice says again. _It’s a portrait of the figure’s mind. She’s alone, except for the fire you lit within her._ Marianne exhales a breath. She supposes it is.

The rest of the title comes easy after that. _Portrait de la jeune fille en feu_ , her regular voice says. It’s a factual description. It will suffice.

Marianne doesn’t take the piece to any salons. She doesn’t display it to anyone, or anywhere. She stores it in her archives, turned away from whoever may be searching within them. 

Over the years, Marianne’s memories get duller. The specific details that she used to be able to recall so easily now— the gentle breeze of the ocean air, the smell of salt on Brittany’s coast, the gentle heat of the fire— they fade. Marianne doesn’t look at the miniature and hasn’t in some time as to not cause herself more pain. It’s something she can’t bring herself to do. Not again.

As time’s arrow marches forward and she finds herself with a class of young girls, she finds that the girls, still bumbling in the face of learning how to be young women, are plucky and a bit invasive. As it happens, they often go picking through her archives to search for old work Marianne wants to make an example out of but isn’t limber enough to grab, and often find some other things in the process. A few weeks ago— almost ancient letters from the Countess requesting a wedding portrait for her stubborn daughter, accentuated by praises for her father’s work and an enclosed address. The girls ask about it, and Marianne smiles sadly and says it was a long time ago. The faraway voice says: _Not so long ago. But it felt like eons ago, did it not?_

Most discoveries aren’t that significant. Most times, too, Marianne accompanies the girls into the archives but one day as Marianne is about to exit, a girl named Annabelle comes up to her and requests the keys to the archives. She insists she needs some of the rarer pigments that Marianne has, only for the slightest bit of her newest work, provided it would be alright, of course. Marianne smiles softly and hands her the keys. Annabelle is trustworthy, and won’t bother anything in her archives.

The day after, Marianne is posing for the girls. She’s not as good as an actual model would be ( _she would be great at it_ , the voice echoes seemingly to no one) but she takes it in stride. Provided they work hard, they’ll be able to work with actual models in the future.

And she spots it.

(Marianne wouldn’t have if not for the fire.)

“Who brought that painting out?”

Annabelle gingerly raises her hand. Marianne swallows. “...I shouldn’t have?”

“No.” Marianne is staring at the figure intently. The figure does not turn around to look at her.

“Did you paint it?”

“Yes.”

“A long time ago.”

“What’s the title?”

Marianne stills, just for the briefest and somehow longest of seconds.

“ _Portrait de la jeune fille en feu._ ”

And Marianne blinks again, and she remembers. Everything in all of its vivid detail— the island and past that. The salon. Page 28. The opera house. Vivaldi.

Marianne blinks— once, twice, three times. She shakes her head and waves a dismissive hand.

“It’s of no importance. We ought to be getting back to how to properly study a model.” Her students blink— only once before turning back to her. Somehow, that small detail troubles her to no end.

That night, Marianne thinks of what good portraiture truly means. The figure’s features are not depicted. And yet, it’s a good portrait, is it not? Marianne should be proud instead of steeling it away from the world. _She would like it_ , the voice says. Marianne dodges that thought, swatting it away like a bothersome insect.

Marianne discovers that it’s awfully easy to repress things. To push back painful memories of easier times. Marianne is not young anymore, and it gets harder with each passing day. She doesn’t grow any younger. She doesn’t have the privilege of acting frivolously any longer.

She can’t dwell on the past.

(So she doesn’t.)

Her solution to the voice of her that wishes to remember seemingly for the rest of her life is to do but one thing.

The studio is empty. There’s no class today, nor tomorrow. She props _Portrait de la jeune fille en feu_ on a small wooden stand. The only light in the room is the small candle she’s holding. Her mind is hit with a strong sense of déjà vu— and she shakes it off.

Marianne, eyes glistening with uncried tears, lights the painting from the fire on the figure. The painting is soon consumed within seconds from the figure’s intense flames. Marianne puts the candle on the table near her and sits down, touching her hand to her forehead. She breathes through her mouth. The flames continue to ensnare the painting within its grasp until it’s a charred piece of canvas.

(Marianne no longer remembers.)

☆★☆

**Author's Note:**

> next chapter of iwwbinp coming ever so Soon. my mind is just in ten different places always at any given time so i was like i’m depressed time to write this! so here it is. Pain and Misery. by all means i hope you so dearly enjoyed even if it Hurt <3  
> ☆★☆  
> torture me on tumblr:  
> krookodyke.tumblr.com


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